He wishes his Beloved were dead
by April3
Summary: One-shot. POV. Grima's thoughts and reflections following Theodred's death. Pretty much a fic for the movie with elements from the book.


Working Title is/was: _He wishes his Beloved were dead_, the title of a Yeats poem, but I don't think it works as well as I wanted it to.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: Grima's not mine, he's Tolkien's. Though Tolkien should have taken better care of him.  This is a mixture of TTT, the movie and the book. You'll see when you read, I hope.

Author's Note: This is a POV fic. Whee.

_Snake_, she called me. Sadly, I am not even a snake. My cunning, my words have not the poison to make Eowyn love me. Believe me, if I had the teeth, I would bite. If I had the venom I would kill.

There is no one to answer me, but still I wonder if I am wrong to wish that the woman I love were dead. In death, I could imagine all the words I might have said, all the answers she might have given. The reality of the matter would be rendered utterly obscure.

But no, much to my regret, she will live. She will find happiness. I will be the one to die. I might very well be dead already. What else is there for a worm to do but die?

Eowyn's death would be of consequence, I know. My own will have no such weight. Who will remember me when I am gone? Eowyn does not even hate me enough for my memory to live on.

I stare at Theodred. _Poor fool_. I wonder what he would think of me being the one to pity him rather than the other way around. I do not even have the grim satisfaction of hating the boy for he was tolerable. He was civil enough. I might have gained control over him in time with my silver tongue, forked as it might be.

Had this dead wretch been Eomer, well, I do admit it would have made me smile.

And why shouldn't it? 

If they all were dead, maybe my life would mean something. Maybe Grima son of Galmod would be more than shadow, more than a name that speaks of little valour and commands even less respect.

"What will death be like?" I mutter to no one in particular. The dead don't answer, after all, but the dead are the only ones who ever offer me their time.

Save those who would have been better left alone. Those that watch me, that make sure I continue this tiresome attempt at existence. I suppose I only have myself to blame for being contented surrounded by those who don't know how to live anymore than I do.

It is only power that I am lacking. No. Not quite. I require both power and a place where I can use it. 

Alas, I will never find that here in Rohan. I will not strive to the way my foolish father did. I will not melt away with grief like my mother. In some ways, Theoden and his kin might have been my family due to the failure of my own. Yet, I will never belong with them either.  

_Poor Grima. He has nothing, he has no one. Who will mourn his passing?_

I won't even have Rohan for long. I won't control Theoden for long. I won't get any power of my own. How can I with no power over myself? Weakness, fear and longing are the only things I have truly mastered. 

Weakness is what gave Eomer banishment instead of well-deserved death. 

Fear is what keeps me from destroying Theoden utterly. 

Longing is what keeps me haunting Eowyn's footsteps.

She will never admit it but I understand her perfectly. I am not the only speaking poison in her ear. She has her own demons to perform that task. I have plenty of my own. She will never listen to me now. She is too clever, too caged to stop and speak to me.

There is no victory here. There is no honor left to find in Rohan. The vicious days have passed us by. _They have passed like rain on the mountain…_

She cannot look at me because I know what haunts her dreams and strips her of her content. She is the mistress of all that I master whether she would be or no.

The wind stirs and change is coming, a change I cannot stop. What can I cling to or hope to keep as my own? 

One last glance at Theodred and I feel a cold prickling at the base of my neck. It is worse than any touch from Saruman for somehow it offers hope as well as doom. 

As I move back to the throne room, I see what is coming and the familiar song of my—no, the—people of Rohan echoes in my mind. _Where now the horse and the rider?_

The answer makes his way up to Edoras and the spell will soon be broken. Grima the Wormtongue goes to give his last performance. What else can he do but seal his fate? 


End file.
